


‘Oh, mon dieu!’ (Or 'Sherlock, quit scratching your naughty bits!')

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allergic reaction, Case Fic, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Hot Sex, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Paris - Freeform, Paris Case, Paris in Winter, S4 fix-it, Scratching naughty bits, after s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:46:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: So what if Sherlock has barely seen John in the past three years? He has a new case! And he needs his Boswell. Immediately! It should be romantic, it should be intriguing, but what it becomes is un beau désordre.Read on for Sherlock’s wonderous wintery Parisian ways to warm up John Watson. A case fic wrapped in a first kiss written especially for @ellipsisaspired for Fandom Trumps HateThird person limited John POV. Three years after S4. Beta and added EastEnders joke by the incredibly talented @mrbotanyb





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OTP221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTP221B/gifts).



> Remaining chapters will be posted this week.

The text message comes on a Friday after a long day with patients’ sore throats, arthritis pains, and acute sinus infections. The ping of his cell still sets off his pulse like Pavlov’s bell. 

**Need you. Come at once. SH**

He shakes his head. Sherlock shut the door two years ago with the words: “I won’t lose you. I won’t risk it. I won’t make Rosie an orphan.” John acknowledges it as an act of self preservation and wallows in the irony that it’s the addict who puts a stop to John’s addiction.

Between pints, Lestrade keeps John up on Sherlock’s adventures. He always asks, and Lestrade always answers. He itches to return to cases, but he’s tired of getting one brush off after another. While John doesn’t feel it’s what Sherlock actually wants, it’s what Sherlock thinks John needs. And it’s what Sherlock needs to save himself from John.

**Imperative you come at once. No imminent danger but in need of a doctor. SH**

**Do you need medical attention or do you need a doctor for a case?**

**Both. SH**

No serious injury requiring immediate medical attention, thus, no risk, which explains why Sherlock chances it, the tosser! Well, John doesn’t want safe. He wants danger. He wants his blood pumping. He wants excitement, mayhem. He wants his old life back.

**Where are you?**

**Paris. SH**

What? Why Paris? Lestrade didn’t mention he was in  _ Paris _ . He shouldn’t feel slighted that Lestrade didn’t tell him, yet he does. 

The last time he’d seen Sherlock was on Rosie’s first day of preschool in September. She’d kissed Sherlock on the cheek goodbye and waved as she walked into her classroom. Sherlock said John’s shirt and tie made him look like Mr. Bean, and he called Sherlock a wanker. In came Miss Penny, the ‘prim-and-proper yet oh-so-hot’ early-years teacher, who let John know such language and behavior would not be tolerated around the children. Sherlock looked John in the eye and said, “Yes John, Miss Penny is correct— that’s a bit not good of you.” John called him a “bloody arse,” and Miss Penny escorted him out the door. 

**I am not going to Paris. I have a daughter. Did you forget?**

John knew the dig was a bit mean-spirited. While John understands Sherlock’s decision, he resents it. This sane, domestic, normal life is not for him. He loves his fatherly duties, and he loves Rosie with all his heart, but he also loves his blood pumping from the chase with the madman beside him. He misses the madman most of all. 

**I need you. And you miss the game. SH**

**How in bloody hell do you do that?**

**The same way I generally know what John Watson is thinking. SH**

John hesitates. But that’s not quite true, is it? Not when it comes to matters of the heart.

John licks his lips. Part of John begs for the excitement, part fears to be near him, part wants to thumb his nose at the wanker, and part hesitates to be at Sherlock’s mercy to get around Paris. He speaks just enough French to get by and understands even less.

**Mrs. Hudson said she would love to have Rosie for a stay over. SH**

**No.**

**The ticket is on its way. Eurostar Business Premier.  SH**

**No. Sherlock. Just no.**

**La Suite Shangri-La. SH**

Sherlock sends a silly selfie with the Eiffel Tower behind him through the window of his suite. Sherlock’s brows push up into the middle of his forehead and his mouth is wide open. John stifles a laugh.

**You’re kidding.**

**Despite the look on my face, I am not. SH**

A few more texts pop up with photos of the inside of the suite. It’s obscene how opulent it is. The rooms are graced with modern architecture mixed with classic French furnishing and a few elegant Asian touches. And the view! Sherlock is on top of all of Paris! A few weeks in that suite probably costs a year of John’s salary. Only a pinch from the pocket of a desperate yet wealthy client or more likely, his brother Mycroft.

It’s fucking amazing, and John gets that itch again but stubbornly refuses to scratch.

**No. Just no.**

And he’d meant “no,” but less than an hour later, a messenger appears at his door. It was far too easy. Once he opens the Eurostar Business Premier ticket to Paris, he turns it over in his hands he knows he’s lost. While  _ not dangerous _ , it might be fun chasing Sherlock through Le Septième **.** Sherlock, Parisian nights. In that suite.

Mrs. Hudson is all smiles, winking and saying, “It’s so good to see you two together again” as she takes an armful of Rosie, then kisses his forehead. 

He scrambles to St Pancras International, but misses his train. He’s surprised to find another ticket waiting for him. Maybe not so surprised. It’s from Mycroft. Probably watching on the CCTV. He waits the next hour reading a John le Carré spy novel. By the time he gets onboard, he’s so knackered from the day, the seat on the Eurostar begs John’s body to melt into it. He naps almost the whole two hour plus ride to Gare du Nord. He wakes to a gentle nudge and collects his baggage before disembarking. He wanders off down the escalator and his eyes rake over the busy station floor. The thought of finding a way to the hotel gives him pause, but he stalks determinedly down the walkway. He joins the crowd and takes the weight from his feet on a nice bench and pulls out his cell. He could text Sherlock, try the Metro, catch a cab. He looks up and finds the tall cat-like form hovering in front of him. It’s Sherlock. But not. 

“Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

“I believe I am drunk.”

“Drunk? You’re kidding.” 

“No, John, I am not kidding,” he says teetering. 

John stands and takes ahold of Sherlock’s arm and steadies him. He looks off in other ways. He’s changed. His face is less angular. 

“Although I’m sure ‘you’re kidding’ was more like a poor attempt at a rhetorical statement,” Sherlock slurs. 

John blinks in confusion. This is not the reunion John had imagined. Sherlock is a mess. Hair tossed and asunder, red silk shirt rumpled and open, cheeks flushed. No, not just flushed, blotchy. 

“How?” John asks, noting lecherous stares from men and women directed at Sherlock. John hasn’t seen him in this state since the night of his bachelor party. Still, he’s a thing of beauty even pissed. 

“Most likely the result of the four shots of Scotch at the Premier Lounge and the di-phen-hy-dramineI I ingested for the swelling. I did sip them...the Scotchishes...waiting for you. You are late, John. I was bored, borrreddd, John.” He waved a magazine in front of John’s face, almost slapping him with it. “Did you know Vincent van Gogh was murdered?!”

“Yes, I read something about that a while back. What does that have to do with why I am here?”

“I am here to prove it.”

“You’re kidding?”

“John, you keep saying that, but this time you are  _ connect _ . That is not why we are here although I believe the conclusion arrived at in this absurd article in the ludicrous-e-e magazine is WRONG! John, I am having a difficult time conversating. But if you come closer, I will whimper it to you.”

He bends down as John holds him upright. Sherlock’s breath tickles his ear.    


“Tu as de beaux yeux. I am so glad you came,” he whispers. “I need your medical attention. I am not contagious, but I have a rather bad rash and a bit of swelling. Distracting. Here, I will show you.” He begins to undo his trousers.

“Sherlock! No!” John says and snatches Sherlock’s wrist. His hands. The long slender fingers are fat. “Wait until we’re at the hotel.” John continues to hold his wrist, and Sherlock’s silly smile warms John. 

“Maybe we should go to hospital.”

“No! I abhor the thought! You are here.”

“Back to the hotel, then?”

“Yes, I have a car waiting,” Sherlock says. 

“That’s good." Sherlock is still half pressed against him, and John hates to let go of his wrist, but they’re in the middle of a crowd where people are grinning and winking at them. Although Sherlock obviously is drunk, John can’t be mad at him like this, it’s simply impossible. "Do you remember where?”

“Of course, John.” 

“So where is it? The car?”

“Sedan.” Sherlock frowns at John like he’s asked him to deduce a locked-room mystery. “Right outside the doors. I will show you.” He twirls and stumbles and taking John’s hand, leads him in the opposite direction. 

Traversing the entire length “outside” of the station, they search for the car. The chill of the Paris winter seems to sober Sherlock up a bit by the time they find the black sedan (of course). His speech seems to be returning to normal. Whatever caused the allergic reaction, Sherlock’s tongue must have swollen and that explains his puffy face and fingers. When John helps his detective inside, it feels like home. Except it’s Paris not London. They’re sitting thigh to thigh when Sherlock leans against him and he begins to scratch. His crotch.

“I told you I’d find the car.” 

“Would you mind not doing that?”John asks.”It’s distracting.”

“ _ Distracting _ ? Distracting?!” Sherlock’s voice raises. “Try living with your genitals being attacked by an angry swarm of fire ants!” 

“Is that what happened?” 

“No. Of course not. It’s how it FEELS, John! It’s torture! It’s agony! You must help me!”

John averts his eyes as Sherlock’s large hands undo his trousers and reach inside. Tongue still a bit swollen. _ Oh, God _ , John thinks,  _ I will not survive the ride to the hotel _ . “Have you tried oatmeal baths?” he suggests.    


“Why in God’s name would I ever want to bathe in oatmeal?”

“Because it’s soothing. I’m surprised the remedy isn’t filed away in that big brain of yours.”

“John, obviously I deleted all nonessential medical knowledge. Why ever would I need it with you around?”

“I haven’t  _ been _ around.” John sighs and steals a look. 

“Yes, well I remedied that, just as you will remedy this.” Sherlock groans as he lifts his arse up and scratches under his bollocks. “At least when I was thoroughly inebriated I didn’t itch!”

“Would you quit that!”

“I need a distraction.”

John’s first thought is to kiss his plumper-than-usual lips.

“John, I’m waiting. Say something clever. Or don’t. You always prattle on, tell stories, make small talk. Just SPEAK!”

“Rosie drew a diagram of a crime scene last week. She said someone killed the class goldfish, Billy, and she decided to find the one responsible.”

“Br-r-illiant! What clues did she find?”

“An empty container of fish food in the rubbish along with an empty Kinder Egg,” John says. “She deduced for the entire class during Show and Tell that Freddy Alexander overfed Billy. She was brilliant. Pointed out he had chocolate on his face and played with a tiny toy Kinder car the day Billy passed on, Miss Penny agreed, but she explained to her that calling Freddy ‘a murderer’ was not the done thing. She rang me up and told me Rosie reduced him to tears.” John stops. At least Sherlock’s hands are out of his pants. 

“Excellent!” 

“No, Sherlock, not excellent. It went from bad to worse. Miss Penny hasn’t cared for me much since the first day of school incident. She didn’t really want me at the school, but I came anyway. When I got there, I explained to Rosie it wasn’t murder, more like manslaughter. Rosie repeated it. To the class. Next I knew, Freddy was guilty of fish slaughter.”

“But John, you were both correct!”

“And you know sometimes it’s best to keep mum even if you’re right. The whole class chimed in, calling him ‘Freddy the fish slaughterer.’ He’ll probably have that nickname for the rest of his life.” 

“There are worse nicknames.”

John nods, knowing Sherlock most likely had much worse. The car stops. They’re at the Shangri-La. It’s grander than what he’d expected— as posh and shiny as Sherlock. 

“Thank you, John. Your distraction was superb. You’ve always come through in a pinch for me, and I do appreciate you. I hope you know how much.”

His tongue is a bit loose and swollen, his body floppy. He’s a right mess, a beautiful right mess. John opens the door and spins around in time to see Sherlock falling out with his trousers open. 

“I may need your further assistance. Although I can speak again, I seem to have a problem standing, and the world is spinning.”

John manages to zip him up. They’re ushered into the hotel like royalty. John half leads and half carries him to the elevator. As the doors whistle shut, Sherlock covers John like a carpet. It’s all John can do keep him upright. Sherlock starts speaking in French to no one in particular, then rests his chin on John’s shoulder. 

“J’aimerais être une goutte de sang pour mieux connaître ton cœur.” Sherlock’s delivery is rich, deep and sensuous. 

“What?” John knows enough French to understand the gist of the statement and blushes to the tips of his ears. When Sherlock repeats it, his heart pumps harder. He never thought Sherlock would use a French pickup line on him, but he decides it’s the best pickup line he’s ever had the pleasure to hear. The blush spreads from his chest to his face and he clears his throat. 

“How did you get this rash?” John asks and immediately regrets it because suddenly Sherlock remembers he itches just as the elevator stops and a young couple gets inside. 

“I purchased new trousers and wore them without underwear. I knew I shouldn’t have purchased Armani.”

The young couple hears Sherlock’s comment, take one look at Sherlock, and burst out in a fit of giggles. It seems Sherlock isn’t the only one who’s had too much to drink. John grabs Sherlock’s hands to prevent him from scratching his groin, which insights more giggles. The couple departs two floors up, kissing and laughing. John lets go, and Sherlock crumples to the floor. He sits, back pressed against the elevator wall, face scrunched in agony, legs open and scratching his bollocks. When they reach the top and the door opens, John prays no one is getting on the elevator.

“What’s the case? You haven’t said,” John asks, part distraction and part curiosity, as he helps Sherlock to his feet.

“It was a five.” Sherlock points down the hall to the room. 

“And it’s not anymore?” 

“No, it’s a six now. Cases are always better with you. But I may have it solved.”

John stops, mouth open. “Then why in bloody hell am I here?!”

“It’s Paris in the winter, I have this lovely room for another week, and I needed a doctor. Also, I lied. It wasn’t a six and it’s not completely solved. It’s more like a two, I’m bored. I hate Paris, particularly in the winter. And I do need a doctor. My doctor. Then there’s the virus although it’s not your specialty.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t contagious?”

“I meant the case. Computer virus, spyware. I’m to determine where it originated. Good God! I’m on fire!” 

John snatches his hand before Sherlock can renew his digging.

“Drop your trousers and pants and let me take a look then.” Sherlock strips down and John kneels in front of him. He puts on his best doctor persona, hoping Sherlock is still too drunk to detect just how much this affects the good doctor. “You’re correct. Most likely allergic eczema and the reaction spread. How long did you keep the trousers on? Normally I’d take a patch test to be certain, but since you told me you know the cause, it’s not necessary. Take a bath, pat the area dry. Put on something more comfortable that doesn’t chafe.”

“I feel so much better without pants.”

“Well, it’s a bit distracting you walking around naked,“ John admits.

Sherlock ignores him and marches around in the altogether, calls room service to inquire about oatmeal baths and has some sent up immediately. John walks around the suite, admiring the furnishings and enjoying the incredible view on top of all Paris: the glittering River Seine, Montmartre’s Sacré Coeur to the Trocadero, the Grand Palais, Notre Dame, the Alexandre III bridge, the Pantheon, the Invalides, the Quai Branly, and of course, the Eiffel Tower. After the third round gaping at the view, he decides to unpack, then he texts Mycroft. The wanker could at least help get his brother some form of relief instead of passing the mess off to him. John demands Mycroft send corticosteroid 40 mg and hydrocortisone lotion immediately if not sooner. 

John sets down his cell and picks up le Carré’s  _ A Legacy of Spies _ off the dresser. He pulls a wool jumper over his head, then slips out onto the terrace. A bit nippy, but the view of Notre Dame warms him. The nostalgia swells inside as he’s thrown back into the sequel. John adored  _ The Spy Who Came in from the Cold  _ as a teenager. A natural fondness. Even as a boy he played spy with Harry, hiding behind bushes and chairs and walls. He sighs. The hero of the story is retired, living in France. On a farm. He and Sherlock must see a bit of French countryside before this case is solved. Ironic that the book’s protagonist is being punished for past heroic acts. That’s the way it goes for heroes in the world, John muses, at least that’s the case for his itchy friend in the other room.

When done with his oatmeal bath, Sherlock parades around the suite. Starkers. John is chilly, but wants to avoid his flushed friend for as long as possible. He reads three pages but remembers none of it. Of course he’s not fooling Sherlock one bit. 

John looks over the top of the book. The rash is on his arse too. John almost feels bad for Sherlock as he stumbles around. Almost. He gets up and goes into the sitting room.

“Order whatever you wish from room service,” Sherlock says, flopping down on in a lush overstuffed chair facing a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. “It’s on Mycroft.” 

“Yes. Mycroft,” John says, looking over Sherlock’s head. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock is making a pass at him with his long legs all spread out and his privates aired out and on display. “I really need you to tell me a bit more about this case.”

Sherlock shoots John his “must-I?” face, crosses his legs (thank God!), then resigns himself to the captain’s stubbornness.

“Mycroft referred to this as a ‘delicate matter.’ It seems someone covertly hacked into high-ranking American and British officials’ accounts.”

“So, you mean cyberattacks or do you mean something along the lines of Wikileaks?” John is impressed how he’s able to pull himself together enough to seem completely sober. Sherlock slurs his words a bit still, but no one but John or maybe Mycroft would notice.

“MI6 only found the leak when they analyzed an encrypted transmission,” Sherlock says. He twists in the chair to get comfortable, but nothing seems to help. “Mostly reports which had been altered or outright fabricated. Hardly the work of whistleblowers.”

“So, these people are disseminating misinformation,” John says, keeping his eyes off his squirming, writhing friend.

“Yes, exce— " Sherlock stops himself from wriggling off the front of the chair just in time, "except. The hacker slipped in genuine, sensitive documents and emails, making it look as if the officials sent them. Not good news for them, considering that the intended recipients appear to be the more unsavory sort of terrorist group.” Sherlock bites his lip. “John! The oatmeal bath helped, but I am afraid its soothing proporties don’t last.”

“Yeah, well. Try not to think of it. So…this was leaked to terrorists. That’s a bit not good.”

John knows Sherlock realizes he trying to distract him yet plays along.

“A sloppy leak, John. Intentionally easy to follow. Obviously meant to be discovered. Obviously meant to cast a shadow over these officials. The virus, also sloppy. Simple to find. Dull. After I reviewed the files in question, it became clear who might want to muddy the waters, but that is not what Mycroft wants. He wants the source, but there is something much more important!” Sherlock bounces in the chair and stands, arms spread wide. John closes his eyes. “The transmission itself. They didn't know what they were looking at. Mycroft has missed an essential part of this. John, the man who did this is clever! Brilliant! A genius!”

“Sounds dangerous.” John doesn’t know if he should be worried or jealous.

“Not dangerous.” Sherlock spins. God, no! Closing his eyes didn’t work, but he can’t  _ not _ watch. Sherlock’s rash is spreading and swelling up bits of him that shouldn’t be swollen. It was like seeing a horrific train wreck or an awful porn film. Either way John wonders if the solution is to just gouge out his eyes.

“How do you know they’re not dangerous?”

“I’ve  _ found  _ him.” Sherlock says and waltzes to the window. “The man is only dangerous behind a computer. Even there, I don’t think that was ever his intent.”

“So am I to understand that this man is here. In Paris. Where in Paris?” A blush rises into John’s cheeks and blood rushes to another part of his body as Sherlock stands on the chair in front of him. Was it wrong to take pleasure in another’s suffering?

“Here.” Sherlock jumps down and strides up to him. He reaches out for John but pulls back like an afterthought. “In this hotel or I should say, employee of this hotel.”

John gasps and covers his face, but what he’d actually like to do is run into the other room and hide. “Sherlock, you really need to put on some clothes. At least your robe. It’s distracting with your penis flopping about.”

“You’re a doctor! You’ve seen all sorts naked!”

“Yes, but they don’t look like you and hop and dance around the room. And  _ I _ don’t have to drink tea with them and look them in the eyes.”

“They don’t look like me? That’s an interesting admission. Or is the rash that revolting? Either way, you are a doctor. My doctor. What would you prefer? I scratch or walk around nude? Pick.”

“Put on your bloody dressing gown!”

Sherlock does, his chin dropping in disappointment at John’s choice.

“Tie it!”

“I hope you know it will chafe!” he shoots back.

A knock at the door relieves the tension and John’s erection. A bouncing delivery boy with meds from Mycroft takes John’s tip, and John shuts the door as Sherlock’s eyes widen at him with suspicion. 

“Shut it! Just shut it! Yes, I called your bloody brother! Yes, I asked for a favor! It’s worth it not to have you scratching and clawing and running about starkers with your bollocks all swollen up like bloody tomatoes!” 

“That’s a bit crass, John.”

Thankfully for John, Sherlock takes the corticosteroid with a big glass of water, then applies the cream, but he can’t get to all of the affected area. When he calls for John’s assistance, all John can remember is the  elevator, Sherlock’s deep voice rumbling in French, telling John he’d like to be a drop of blood to know his heart better. Touching and smoothing the lotion over Sherlock’s arse becomes dreamlike. What lucky fingers!

After, Sherlock rails about the room giving John jumbled bits of the case and pointing out where the hotel's recent remodeling has corrupted the vision of the original decorator before finally flopping down in a creamy chair that John now knows is part of the suite's original Pierre-Yves Rochon design. It looks comfy.  With first smattering of Paris nightlife waking behind Sherlock’s form, he mercifully falls asleep in the chair. Or passes out from exhaustion and alcohol. The poor sod twitches. John decides to order food and calls room service. He orders Shrimp Pad Thai with house tea for himself and Sherlock, then settles down to read more of his novel but stays inside to keep watch on Sherlock, who wakes briefly when the food arrives. 

“Hungry?” John asks. Sherlock stirs in his chair and wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth as he gives John a blurry-eyed shake of his head. He curls his knees up and rolls into a ball on his side in the roomy chair and promptly begins to snore. John laughs. He’s still stinking drunk. He’s just an incredible actor. 

Dinner is just as incredible. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sometime during the night, Sherlock staggers across the suite and falls into his bed. John’s not sure when, but there’s no Sherlock in the chair when John rises. He’s sipping tea on the terrace when he hears Sherlock’s deep voice boom from the other side of the suite. His room. Why is Sherlock in his room!

“Get your short arse next to me and tell me what you see, John!” John walks over and looks down into John’s open dresser drawer that Sherlock is staring daggers into. “You messed with my sock index, again!” Sherlock barks.

“You’re back to being an enormous tosser.” John crosses his arms. “The rash better?”

Sherlock’s green eyes focus on John’s lips, then he blinks. Like a switch his attitude disappears. “Why yes, John, much better. Thank you.” 

“And as for your bloody sock index,” John fumes, “I needed a bit of room IN MY DRESSER for my clothes too.” 

John recrosses his arms and stares at Sherlock. The floor to ceiling panoramic view of Paris caressed by the morning light frames him in pinks and blues. Slowly, Sherlock’s lips curl just at the edges as the white light of the sun comes out from behind the clouds, and his Mona Lisa smile brightens the room as much as the sun brightens him. John wonders when he became so soppy. Must be Paris. 

John checks Sherlock over. The swelling is gone. He tells him to take more diphenhydramine to be safe. He still has a rash, but the itching as subsided. Sherlock even acts grateful and lets John keep his pants in with Sherlock’s socks.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

John still doesn’t understand why Sherlock hasn’t handed over the cyber terrorist to Mycroft. With a passkey and hotel uniforms, they’re snooping through parts of the hotel locked to guests on a quest only known to his friend. 

“You know who did it. Where he is,” John whispers. “What he’s done, and why he’s done it. Even if you didn’t, you could find out how by having Mycroft sweep in and take this terrorist in along with his hardware and software. Yet there’s still a mystery afoot. What?”

“You missed something essential, John!” Sherlock turns to him, his deep voice hushed. They’ve waited for the group inside the room to break for lunch. The last of them leaves: an attractively slim young man in a blue t-shirt with close-cropped hair revealing a multitude of cowlicks, giving his hair a surrealistic effect. 

“First, he is no terrorist. Second, this isn’t a matter of confiscating hardware or software and taking someone into custody!” Sherlock says. Sherlock and John hurry to the door where Sherlock tries the pass key with no success, then slips another from his trousers. It works. “Connections, John, connections. This so-called ‘cyber terrorist’ has achieved ultra wideband transmission over tremendous distances, and I do not know how. The virus is nothing. His new technology has so many implications and applications! Now, we may learn how he did it.”

A new technology. New inventions. It was like dangling candy in front of Sherlock. Or maybe gingernuts. He loves gingernuts.

“That, and Mycroft wants this kept quiet to protect the officials, although I do think it may be too late to spare their reputations. However...” Sherlock opens the door. Inside, all sorts of hardware John can’t begin to describe fill the desks and walls. It doesn’t look like the typical tech hub he’s ever seen. It’s aesthetically pleasing, yet there’s so much. 

“Where? Which PC?” is all John manages to ask.

“Simple! This one. It belongs to the one with the most to lose. The one last to leave,” Sherlock says, hand caressing the keyboard. “It’s still warm.”

“You can’t tell by touching your bloody fingers to the keyboard!” 

“No, but this artifact next to his monitor is identical to the picture on his t-shirt.” Sherlock picks up a blue statuette. 

“You’re fucking with me. That’s the Tardis.”

“No, it’s a police box.” Sherlock removes a flash drive from his trousers. He gets the password almost immediately. “For a genius he could have chosen something less obvious.”

John snorts. “Let me guess,” he says. “Torchwood with zeros?”

“No. His name in an acronym.” 

“ _ Really _ .” John raises his eyebrow, then hears a few beeps and whirls. Sherlock inserts the flash.

“ _ Oopsie _ .” 

“Sherlock? What did you just mean by, ‘Oopsie?’” This can’t be good. 

“I may have set off an internal alarm system.”

“We should go.” John grabs his forearm and pulls.

“No need. We have time. It’s a private system, most likely notifying our genius someone is accessing his station. He takes lunch down the street at a café on the corner, and it will take him at least twelve minutes to get back here. We should be done by then. However, I seem to have activated his camera.”

“So, he’ll know who we are. You do know I’m not armed.”

“Please, John. We are perfectly safe. He does not have high-powered weaponry or any of the skill set you possess. And I know his identity, it’s only fair he should know mine.”

“His name?”

“Is Willem LaPointe.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, but Willem could have friends who do own weapons.”

“I don’t believe so. This man is a loner— but we shall see...”

It’s been too long since he’s felt this rage of adrenaline and racing pulse. John finds that he can’t wait to see.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The moment they get back to their suite, Sherlock buries his face in his laptop and rifles through what he’s retrieved. At times it looks as though he’s more going through the motions than having any particular interest in it. John calls Mrs. Hudson to check on Rosie when a loud bang startles him, then realizes what it is as Sherlock slaps the desk again. The wanker. When Sherlock then throws his hands in the air, John jumps to capture his friend’s animated faces and gestures. Nice blackmail material for later. Unfortunately, before he can get his phone out, Sherlock frowns and yawns. 

John strolls into the living area and orders room service (this was something he could get used to) and when he returns, Sherlock is so filled with glee that he looks like a six-year-old at a birthday party. Just when John thinks he’s about to blow out the candles, a knock comes to the door.

“Mycroft?” John asks. 

“No.” Sherlock grins.

John looks through the peephole. “Surprise, surprise! It’s Willem the Tardis boy.”

“No one is with him. Let him in.” 

Sherlock is correct— of course, no one else is with him, and it’s beyond John how Sherlock knows this. He is armed, however. John flings the door open, and Willem all but falls inside. He’s all long arms and lanky legs with crazy black hair, big brown eyes, and thick long eyelashes beneath tortoise-shell glasses. 

“Why’d you steal my data?” Willem demands, brandishing his Sonic Screwdriver. 

“You really think that will persuade us? Really?” John laughs. “It’s not even a weapon. It’s a tool. Any Whovian worth his salt knows that.” He hadn't expected the French hacker to speak English as if he was raised in Shoreditch, but John supposes he may be a fan of  _ EastEnders _ as well as  _ Doctor Who _ .

“It looks futuristic.” Sherlock eyes “the weapon.” 

“It’s a bloody toy.” John steps up to Willem and takes it from him anyway. 

“Of course it is! I knew that!” Sherlock said, taking “the weapon” from John and inspecting it. 

“It’s all I had— worth a try,” Willem brushes past John and stands toe to toe with Sherlock, squinting his eyes up at him, snatching his Sonic Screwdriver back from Sherlock’s long fingers. “You took something else from me. What could you possibly want with it? I’ve done nothing illegal! Well, maybe a bit sensitive...I mean, I wouldn’t want it getting around.”

“What is he talking about?” John asks.

“He has an enormous cache of porn files of excellent quality, but we both know, _ Willem _ , that there’s much more there than gay erotica.”

“Gay porn?” John asks, puzzled. He never thought Sherlock had any interest.

“He had it in the same folder,” Sherlock explains. “Decoys. None of his peers would look through them since they are all homophobic. He saved all his data as PNG images. The text is editable in Fireworks.”

“But there were thousands of files!” Willem blurts.

“Ten thousand five hundred and thirty-seven, to be precise.”

John stifles a smile. He knows what’s coming next. 

“For a man with your superior intellect, you did not hide them well. Two details gave them away: The names and the size. Really! ‘Ultra Wide Butt Plug Boys’ and ‘Back Hole Transmissions’?” 

“People I work with wouldn’t notice, and if they did, they sure as Hell wouldn’t open the files.”

“I am not the people with whom you work, and it seems someone did.”

“Yes, you’re Sherlock Holmes. Always thought you was queer, but you look different than I expected. Yer all puffy and pasty and lumpy, not all sharp cheekbones and chiseled jawline.” 

John bites his lip to keep from laughing. Sherlock ruffles around like a male peacock whose feathers won’t fan. He’s upset. Insulted. John decides to help him save face. Literally. 

“He’s been under the weather. Allergic reaction.”

“Oh, but he’s gay, right? Yer lovers...not that it’s any of my business. Just wondering like the rest of your fans.”

John blinks. “No.”

“Fans?!” Sherlock huffs. “I am not some celebrity! I am a detective, the ONLY consulting detective in the World AND my partner’s sexual orientation is not up for discussion. EVER.”

“So touchy! I don’t care one way or the other who you fuck—” Willem says and nicks a look at John again, who is shaking his head. “All I care about is what are you going to do with my files?” 

“That is a question we should be asking you,” John says, taking a deep breath. “Take a seat.” 

John is upset with himself for more than one reason. For a start, that it's taken this long to catch up with Sherlock: Why Sherlock deemed this man “not dangerous” from the start. It’s because this man is oblivious! He has no clue as to how his invention was used. And he's upset with himself that after all these years he’s still affected by someone like Willem implying that he and Sherlock were in a relationship.

“The alarm and camera setup,” John says, “someone’s done this before us. Taken your information.” 

“I suspected,” Willem says. “But I thought it was buddies seein’ what I was up to. Nosey bastards.”

“You suspected correctly, but you may not have noticed the first time,” Sherlock says. “One of your ‘buddies’ has loose lips. Your code was taken along with the rest of your research, and your new method of transmission used by a terrorist faction.”

Willem falls heavily into the creamy chair like he’s been shot in the chest. He covers his face with his hands. It’s possible he might cry. “I’m going to prison for the rest of my life!” he wails.

“No, you will not,” Sherlock says. “Not if you help us catch who took it.”

“But they most likely got what they wanted already. Why would they return?” John asks.

“Because he has new research. It’s brilliant!” 

“Why thank you,” Willem says, uncovering his face, “I think.”

“So this could be our chance to catch them,” John says.

“I have a pretty good idea which one of my mates was snooping around my things,” Willem says. “Same one who swipes my cheese sandwiches.”

“Do tell,” Sherlock says.

Willem does.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

With Willem’s help, Sherlock set up surveillance he could monitor in from his laptop of the hotel’s own tech and surveillance hub with a particular focus on Willem’s station. Within 24 hours, the cheese sandwich thief, a.k.a. Paul Martin, had accessed Willem’s computer. 

“John? I know you’ve been in Paris two days and not seen the sights, but you’ve done it before, and it’s so banal. How would you like to take a take a ride through the French countryside?”

“For this case? Just say it’s for this case, Sherlock. It’s not that hard to ask me outright.”

“Yes for this case!”    


John feels a bit sorry he’d snapped at Sherlock. He doesn’t say so, but calls for the house tea and cake Sherlock loves. When it arrives, Sherlock blushes and thanks John. It’s the best each can do to say they’re sorry. And he really did want to ride through the French countryside in the winter. 

Unfortunately, the ride also includes Willem LaPointe. He’s an alright bloke, but he talks more than Sherlock on a three nicotine patch case. John lets him in and all three stand awkwardly at the door. 

“I’ll call a cab,” Willem offers. 

“No need. I have a access to a car.

“Of course you do,” John and Willem say in unison. 

John manages to block out Willem’s incessant small talk. He’s surprised at Sherlock’s tolerance. It surprises John even more to see a Sherlock Holmes who’s a bit in awe of this Willem and his intellect. It makes John a bit envious. Jealous even. The fact that Willem is gay and attractive in a nerdy kind of way also ruckles John’s sensitivities. 

John finds out that they’re going to break into the cheese thief’s house, or rather, his mother’s home where she resides in Clamart. John can’t help thinking how cliche it is that he lives with his mother, but more than that, he’s miffed Sherlock and Willem decided on this little country outing without consulting him. Not that Sherlock ever consults John. Much. But Willem?

The forty-minute drive takes almost twice that because of traffic in Paris, but John doesn’t mind so much.

Watching the sites, John’s reminded it’s truffle season. He imagines the mushrooms in quaint little markets and decides he must visit one before leaving. While brisk at night, today was warmer, sunny, different than London winters. 

John thinks this should have been different— a quiet drive in the country  _ alone _ with Sherlock. He presses his cheek to the window and bites his lip. Whose fault is it? His own. He’s had plenty of opportunities in the last two days. Sherlock practically fell at his feet. Now this boy genius is moving in on him. Sherlock and his long legs are on the other side of the car with Willem separating them and nudging closer to Sherlock by the moment. And he sure is touchy-feely too. Hands flitting on and off Sherlock’s knees and arms and hands. Usually Sherlock shies away from touch, but he’s not flinching. 

He tries his best to overlook it all. Best he can do is watch the landscape unfold before him. 

They drive around the village and decide to walk around a bit. 

“Do you speak French?” Willem asks John. They're the first words he’s spoken to John. 

“Barely. Enough to get by,” he says with suspicion. What? Did he plan on whispering sweet nothings to Sherlock in French? They’ve come to a halt in front of the bookshop the sister of the cheese sandwich thief owns. John worries his lip.  _ What is wrong with me? _ He thinks.  _ I’m being ridiculous!  _ He takes a quick look at Willem and catches him standing far too close and gazing starry-eyed at Sherlock’s lips.  _ Fuck.  _ He _ is  _ right. His hand is on Sherlock’s back, thumb caressing his coat! John tells himself,  _ The kid just has a crush.  _

But he can’t shake it. John’s blue eyes bore into Willem. Willem shivers, meets John’s cool stare, and follows John’s icy path from Willem’s hand to Sherlock’s back. His hand flies back as if on fire and practically leaps a foot away. John sidles closer, staking his claim. He almost sticks his tongue out at Willem, but that would be juvenile. 

“Let’s go inside,” Sherlock suggests, then draws up his Mona Lisa smile.  _ The wanker, _ John thinks, a bit giggly. Sherlock played them both. 

John’s not so sure about this new kind of game Sherlock is playing. He follows right behind Sherlock with no space between them for Willem to scoot into.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Not much to glean from la librairie Mademoiselle Monique or from Mademoiselle Monique Martin herself. Not that John knew exactly what was being said, Sherlock’s fluency in French left John in the dust. He caught a few lines here and there. The sister vacillates from flattered to fluttered. More telling is his partner’s nods, pursed lips, brows pulled forward. The bookstore is filled with men and women browsing shelves and seeking advice on interesting books. Willem keeps back and pretends to browse the shelves, far enough to be unnoticed yet close enough to overhear.

As they leave, Willem tags five steps behind them, still playing covert eavesdropper.

“Well?” John says finally.

“Mademoiselle Monique knows. She called her mother as we stepped out,” Sherlock says. “The mother will, in kind, call her son and inform him of our visit.”

“That makes breaking in more of a challenge.”

“We won’t need to break in. We will payer maman une visite. Willem should stay behind in the car.” 

John smiles at his feet as he keeps step with Sherlock, side by side. 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“Ahh,” Sherlock groans, half because they’ve arrived and half because he’s scratching his bollocks again.

John, who seated himself decisively in the center, snatches Sherlock hand away. He takes his other and starts scratching again, which is problematic. In a word, Willem. 

“Stop!” John orders. 

“I need more cortizone applied. It’s in my pocket,” Sherlock pulls out the tube and thrusts it into John’s hands. 

“What do you want me to bloody do with it?”

Sherlock glares at him like John’s an idiot. “No! Not here. I mean...Sherlock!” Of course the implications of the whole exchange turn John as red as a beet to the tips of his ears. 

“Oi! I thought it was true. Guess it’s confirmed! If ya need any help, I’m always here to oblige!” Willem chuckles and John wishes he could pound him. 

_ No! Not ‘pound’ him! Punch him! Punch him! _

John covers his face with his hands. It’s too much. As usual, Sherlock raises an eyebrow and says absolutely nothing. 

“Get out of the car!” John orders Willem, who turns white and stumbles out. As he falls half out the car door John shouts, “And turn your back!” The door slams shut. Willem stands six feet from the car, back straight, facing away.

“Unzip,” John orders. He proceeds to have Sherlock lower his trousers and pants, then lift up and hover over the plush leather seat. He squeezes a liberal amount of the cream onto his fingers and methodically administers it over his bollocks and his arsehole. He intentionally takes his time letting his fingers slide and slip. That both of them are aroused gives John a certain amount of satisfaction and power. Sherlock is rather vocal. Also, he hopes Willem thinks twice about putting his hands on his Sherlock. The driver seems unaffected by the performance. 

“Better?” John asks, wiping his hand on a hanky, then arranging himself. Sherlock squeaks a “Yes” as he attempts to right himself. When their eyes finally meet, John clears his throat. “Let’s go meet mum.”

As they step out, Willem turns, hands thrust in his trouser pockets. John didn’t want to think what he might have been doing with them.

Willem gets back inside the sedan to wait.    


It’s a quaint 19th Century white stucco family cottage with a courtyard garden and private patio. John and Sherlock step down the walk up the steps and knock on the rose colored door. Sherlock explains who they are and why they are there to the servant, who is not surprised to see them. 

Madame Martin is an attractive woman, dressed fashionably— at least John thinks so. He’s not so certain Sherlock would agree. Her camel-colored trousers and raspberry blouse set off her honey hair. She spies John over her reading glasses. 

John quickly realizes what he thought of as a shortcoming is actually an advantage. Not understanding most of what was said, instead he observes. The home. The room. Its furnishings. Madame Martin. And Sherlock.

First: This home has had recent renovations and updates, including many modern amenities. John can see part of the kitchen with newly installed appliances. Second: Mom intentionally looks toward the stairs, yet avoids the door to the right of her. 

Of course, Sherlock immediately motions toward the stairs. Madame Martin and Sherlock go up. Leaving John. 

It’s evident to mom that John understands little French. However, John understands Sherlock well. The moment they reach the top of the stairs, John goes to the door and opens it.

This is a surprise. John feels he should turn around and go back out the door. He’s invading a sacred space, a parent’s expression of grief, but John doesn’t leave. Instead he treads respectfully inside. The child was not a child— a young woman. 

John’s heart aches for the family. News clippings line the wall, and although in French, John recalls it all. A bombing three months ago, two dead and this young girl was one. Tall and long, pouty lips, fair skin, black curls. She could be Sherlock’s sister. But what puzzles John most is why their research didn’t reveal another child. Then he reads her name. Simone Renée Nadon. Second marriage? Stepsister to Paul Martin? Puzzling. More puzzling, why would Paul Martin help the very people who might have murdered his sister? 

John ponders the first question: Maybe she was a half-sister of the bookshop owner, John muses. The nose is not the same, but rest of the face and hair is much like the woman at the bookstore. Her life in a room? But as John looks around, it’s evident it wasn’t a teenager’s room. No knick knacks or keepsakes, cherished stuffed toys, just framed photos on tables and clipping walls. A bed and quilt. John opens the closet. 

He leaves the room as it was, and hopes to find the why in all of this.

When they get back into the car, Sherlock notes John’s silence. John almost forgets his intimate ministrations not a half hour earlier and realizes Sherlock mistakes his silence for a change of heart. 

“It’s a bedroom like we assumed,” John says. “But the room is more of a shrine.” Sherlock’s eyes widen, the jade-green edges completely exposed. John describes what he saw in solemn detail as Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut as he listens. When done, Sherlock asks John to relate not just what he saw, but what he observed.

“Four people reside in the house,” John concludes. “The clothes in the closest were conservative and matronly, not fashionable attire Mademoiselle Martin of the bookstore or the mother, Madame Martin would wear or for that matter, could wear. The shoes I saw in the closet were not only practical, they were big.”

“Very good, John! Go on...” Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin, then looks at John and grins.

“I would surmise the woman staying in the room is Madame Martin’s sister-in-law. The homage is hers. The departed young woman is Madame Martin’s niece.” John says more to himself than to Sherlock. 

“John, you catch on so much quicker!” 

“But I still don’t understand why. Did she say anything that gave you a hint as to why Paul Martin would help people like this? Misplaced loyalties?” Willem, still pouting, sits listening. John isn’t sure how much to divulge. At this point, he’s not sure he cares. He’s curious. “Don’t just sit there scratching, tell me what you found out.”

“She assumed I knew more than I did.” Sherlock takes his cell and his fingers fly as he texts. At least it’s a distraction from his crotch. “Rosie is doing well.”

“Good. Of course you didn’t let Madame Martin know any different.”

“Of course! She kept saying it was not ‘her’ fault, that there had been a mistake and it all had been corrected.” He pauses to read a text. “I believed she was referring to Mademoiselle Martin, but now I see that was not the case. It was the girl in the shrine, Simone Renée Nadon.” His cell vibrates. He reads another text. “The mother admitted her son has been behaving oddly, but she said it had to do with this mistake.”

“I remember Paul bein’ distracted a while back. He never said a thing about about a sister or cousin dyin’, but he did take a week off work a few months back.” 

“So she and the family have reason to be paranoid,” John says. “That doesn’t explain Paul Martin’s actions.”

“Simple. Money. Isn’t that why most people do shit like that?” Willem says.

“The house has had extensive updates,” John agrees. “And that car in the driveway is new. Still why would Paul Martin take money from anyone who might have had something to do with his cousin’s murder?”

Willem looks over at Sherlock. “Well?”

His cell rings and Sherlock answers. “Speak! And you better have answers!” Sherlock rolls his eyes as he listens, then after a few irritated grunts, he doesn’t say goodbye, just shoves his cell back into his Belstaff.

“Ahh,” John says, “Mycroft.”

“It seems big brother as per usual has not been forthcoming with all information pertinent to a case. At one time Simone Nadon was suspected to be the suicide bomber. She was cleared.” 

The realization is a frightening twist that’s too close for John. “She had the bomb strapped to her?!” 

“No, much more tragic. She was hugging a young man with the bomb strapped to him. His name was Henri Edgars,” Sherlock says. “He was a friend, diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic and off medication. None of this became public. The family, however, was subjected to intensive scrutiny by direction générale de la sécurité intérieure. She suspected what her friend intended to do and tried in vain to prevent it. She distracted him, moved him away from a large crowd. A few people were injured, but other than the two, no one seriously. She was cleared as being an accomplice yet no one knows what she did except for a few witnesses.”

“That’s horrific,” Willem said. 

“And incredibly brave,” John adds. “She sacrificed herself to save others.”

“But how did she know?” Willem asks. 

Sherlock leaps with excitement. “Yes, Willem! How did she know?!”

“You always say there’s no coincidences,” John says, wishing Willem would quit making eyes at Sherlock like a puppy looking for approval.

“She knew because of her cousin,” Sherlock says to Willem. “The press never told the story. It should have been told. Most families would share such a thing. Why? Simple. The connection between Simone Renée Nadon and her cousin would be made and all would be exposed.”

Willem sparkles at the attention. 

“He is not involved in a terrorist faction,” Sherlock says. “This is all for someone else’s political gain. The man with the bomb? Paul Martin’s partner and Simone’s friend. Willem, you are correct; the incentive was money. A lot of money.” 


	3. Chapter 3

John’s mind tumbles with all Sherlock said and didn’t say. He’s always like that— just a taste, enough to tempt and taunt but not the whole slice of cake. He loves to make John deduce what he can for himself. John knows he’s better at chasing clues than he ever used to be. For one, he knows that Willem isn’t as innocent as he’s playing at— at least in regard to his interests in Sherlock. John would also be willing to bet Henri wasn’t willingly wrapped in explosives and that his family knew what Paul was up to. 

Then, John could be completely wrong. 

He flicks a glance at Sherlock, his fingers dancing across his iPhone, and the whole tempting taste goes another way in his head all together. 

They’re back in Paris and it’s mid-afternoon. His face warms thinking of touching Sherlock, those long fingers, where they’ve been and where his have been. 

First they need to lose Willem. “Where do you want us to drop you off?” John asks. Willem’s face drops. Seriously? John thinks. He gives the driver an address, then looks over John’s head to Sherlock.

“Do you think it’s safe for me to go home?”

Damn. As much as he hates this Willem, he doesn’t want anything to happen to him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answers. “Perfectly.” John squints his eyes. The clipped monotone. The raised chin. He knew exactly where they were going to be for the next few hours: covertly watching Willem’s apartment. 

After letting off Willem, Sherlock orders the driver to drop them off around the corner and wait. John suggests the small café across the street for the stakeout. Since it’s a bit too cool to sit outside, they pick a bright window table that affords the perfect secreted view of Willem’s apartment and a quaint snapshot of Paris in Winter. Sipping café crème compliments of Mycroft (how Sherlock managed to snag his Barclays Infinite Card, John’s not sure), they chat about Rosie and past cases. 

Too late for le déjeuner, Sherlock orders a tasty assortment of appetizers: shrimp canapés, goat cheese, and cheddar gougères. For his sweet tooth, Sherlock orders coffee crème brûlée with one spoon. John doesn’t ask Sherlock if he itches for fear that reminding him will begin the cycle anew, but from his observations, Sherlock is doing much better: his angular jawline and sharp cheekbones have returned. Sherlock scoops a bit of the crème brûlée onto the spoon and lifts it to John’s lips. As he parts them, the creamy smooth dessert teases his tongue and heats other parts. It’s the single hottest act John has ever experienced. As John licks his lips, he catches Sherlock’s own study. Eyes connect, linger and don’t shy away.  _ Finally _ , John thinks,  _ tonight neither of us make silly excuses _ . 

Sherlock’s head snaps around. “Ahh, John look.” Across the street Mademoiselle Martin pulls up in a cab. Before she can get out, John and Sherlock are out of their seats. Sherlock nabs a paper from a table. As they are slipping out the door, Sherlock holds up a paper and John keeps his face down. Crossing the street, Sherlock grasps John’s coat sleeve as they weave stealthily between cars. 

John looks up to see her reaching inside her bag as she stands in front of the ornate, solid double doors. “She has a key?” John whispers. She slips inside and the dark wooden door closes. Sherlock rushes up the same steps and John behind. Sherlock waits then opens the entrance door with a key he retrieves from his coat.

“How did you get that?” John asks as they step inside like they belong. 

“Simple. You didn’t think I enjoyed Willem pawing me?” A second security gate greets them. Trash litters the floor, cobwebs hang from the ceiling like an old horror movie, and the "non-smoking" sign is pockmarked with cigarette burns. Sherlock uses a second key on the gate. The tiny elevator looks like it will only hold two and perhaps a small dog. This is confirmed when two people and a small dog shoulder their way in ahead of them as soon as the door opens. John's hackles rise, but Sherlock is already taking the stairs two at a time, texting as he goes.  "Hurry, John! He may be in serious danger."

“Lovely place,” John says, kicking aside an empty wine bottle as he races after the crazy man. Willem’s room is easy to find— it’s the one with the raised voices behind it. “Do you have the key?” John asks, Sherlock shakes his head no. “Do we knock or just break the door down?”

“Why not just walk in?” Sherlock throws the door open wide to a shocked Mademoiselle Martin pointing a 9mm Luger at Willem’s head. John steps far around Sherlock and along the wall of Willem’s bedroom, living room and kitchen all-in-one living space. 

The relief of Willem’s face is palpable. 

“Please lower the gun,” Sherlock orders, and she turns the gun toward Sherlock instead. “There are three of us and only one of you.”

“But I have the gun,” she says. Her grip on the gun tightens, her bright red fingernails contrast against the Luger. With Willem behind, Sherlock in front and John beside, she strains to keep them all in sight. Her hand shakes. 

Sherlock takes half a step forward and Madame Monique swings the barrel towards him. 

"You have the advantage," Sherlock says, palms out, and John knows his cue when he hears it. With some satisfaction and pride, John zips behind Mademoiselle Martin and snatches the gun from her hand. "A fleeting one, as it happens," Sherlock quips. Willem’s about to come in his pants he’s so excited. John doesn’t want Willem’s interests shifted to him, but then John looks at Sherlock and sees his pupils blown open, lips moist and curled. John thinks the detective might take a wank right along side Willem.

“She’s the mastermind behind it all. She found out what Willem was up to from her nosey brother, Paul. Saw the value of it. Put it out there using connections from her cousin’s friend, Henri Edgars. Went for the highest bidder. Then when Edgars realized how deep this was going, to topple government officials, and possibly governments, he decided to come forward with his story. She enlists Paul, who's already in deep, to help put a bomb on Edgars' chest. Man like that, who already has a history of mental illness, who's already feeling guilty about what he's done, couldn't have been too hard to get him to do what you want, make it look as if it’s an act of insanity or terrorism.”

“Simone bet her life that the one with the finger on the button wouldn’t push it with her wrapped around her friend,” John says. “She thought you wouldn't push the button. But she was wrong. You did.” To her credit, Madame Martin cries, although John knows it’s for show.

“You’d think someone who owns a bookstore would have more scruples,” Willem says, not buying her tears either. 

“The bookshop is a front,” Sherlock says, texting. John thinks Mycroft most likely. “It seems she and our friend Miss Adler share a similar vocation.” 

John cringes at the mention of the woman’s name. 

“That’s why there were so many desperate lookin’ old men in there,” Willem says. “Hmm. If that’s the case shouldn’t the name on the front read la librairie  _ Madame  _ Monique?” 

The sound of footsteps from the hallway filter inside Willem’s sparse apartment. 

Men pour inside and crowd the room. Madame Monique is in custody. After the men get a few brief statements, they clear out and to John’s surprise, they leave Willem behind, standing surprised as John.

“Don’t go far. My brother has a lucrative proposition for you. He should be contacting you shortly. He will make sure your invention is put to good use.”

“But is it honest use?” John asks.

“It’s Mycroft! Of course it may be a bit shady.”

“Don’t worry,” John says. “Mycroft is with the British government.”

“He is the British government.”

“So you keep saying.”

“So he keeps implying.”

“I think our work is done. I’d say it’s time for a bit of a holiday, wouldn’t you John?” he opens the door and they step out. 

“It’s how you enticed me here to begin with.”

“John, you know it was more than that,” he says, then leans into John, mouth tickling his ear. “You didn’t hand over that Luger.”

“They didn’t ask for it.”

“Hmm. Yes. It may still come in handy.” He presses closer as they walk down the stairs.

“I thought the case was over. Are you expecting who the Martins were covering for to come after us?”

“No. I was thinking of along the lines of something else altogether different,” he purrs. 

John goes rock hard in an instant. “You were?” John squeaks, as Sherlock’s hand comes to rest on the Luger stuffed in the back of John’s trousers. 

They walk around the corner and the black sedan and driver still sit. “Doesn’t the driver get bored sitting and waiting for you?” John asks. 

“He keeps entertained. He has eclectic interests, trades stocks, visits porn sites, emails his grand-mère.”

“You seem to be better.”

“A bit. I am feeling an itch.” The double meaning isn’t lost on John.

“Mmmm. When we get to the hotel, I will help you scratch it.” 

“I’d rather receive treatment.”

John nodded. “Lotion? Fingers?”

“We are in agreement,” Sherlock moans.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

After a nice dinner on Mycroft, they relax on the couch and reflect on the case. Sherlock sits on one end, back against the creamy overstuffed arm. Sherlock gathers his feet into his lap, folding his legs lotus-wise, and cradles the Luger in his hands. 

“That’s not loaded still, is it?” John asks. 

“No, John,” his voice a dark, rich chocolate. He unwinds his legs. “John?” He slides his back down the arm and drops his knees apart, the Luger caressing his crotch. “I still itch a bit.”

“Need some cream applied?” John’s voices cracks and his cheeks go redder making his eyes bluer by contrast. 

“Although I’d really like to see that gun put to good use,” Sherlock says, “I like your fingers so much more.” 

John can’t believe where this is going. And they haven’t kissed. He needs to rectify that fact before going any further. He reaches out, touching Sherlock’s thigh, then hand, then gun. He gently removes it from his fingers, one by one. He sets it on the coffee table in front of them, then lets his body fall down the cushions, his mouth resting on the side of Sherlock’s neck. The throaty moan that escapes those perfect lips make John’s cock stand at attention.

He slides his hand between the couch cushion and the nape of Sherlock’s neck and leans closer. Sherlock hiccups approval as John’s mouth curls at the corner. Then John’s mouth meets Sherlock’s. It’s odd and right. John flicks his tongue out for a taste test. Sherlock’s hands find their purpose, and he shifts John’s hips into alignment. 

John shrugs his bad shoulder as he winds an arm around Sherlock’s neck to hold on. Closer. He needs him closer. Sherlock’s mouth blunders along. He’s unpracticed, but something about that makes it hotter. Then it clicks. The perfect angle. Mouths together. Tongues plunder. John pushes his fingers up into Sherlock’s curls. It’s the best and most favorite kiss of John’s life. They break and gasp for breath.

“John! Why haven’t we done this before?” 

“I don’t know.”

“We’ve been idiots!”

John silently agrees as he fills Sherlock’s mouth again with his tongue. They move together— a pushing and pausing then pressing of mouths. Sherlock’s eyes flutter all heavy-lidded with lust. John swears they’re so green under his lashes that they’re like a jungle of want. His heart pounds as Sherlock’s hands find a new fascination as the long fingers knead and squeeze his arse. In answer, John moves his hand down the dips of Sherlock’s chest and stomach. 

“Bedroom,” John whispers and pulls back slowly. 

John loves the look of the flush, swollen lips he leaves behind. Sherlock’s cheeks are crimson, and he sobs out “yes!” as he lets John lead him off the couch.

In purples and pinks, the Paris sky splashes across the bedroom. John wonders will he undress for me or will he want me to undress him? He wonders no longer. Sherlock plucks his own buttons, one by one. Step by step, he slinks up to John until he’s toe to toe, then shifts his silky shirt off his creamy shoulders and lets it drop to pool behind him. 

John swallows hard. John’s never been one for presentations, but he knows how to admire one. 

Sherlock’s lips are full and firm. This time John is braver. He lets his teeth rake over Sherlock’s lips, sending quivers and quakes through Sherlock’s limbs. He pushes his tongue out between his teeth, licking and nipping. Sherlock’s hands finally find their purpose as they trip under John’s shirt and divest him of it. John skims his hands lower, flicking Sherlock’s nipples, shifting fine hairs until he reaches the button on Sherlock’s trousers. He helps Sherlock out of them, shimmying them down his hips and freeing his proud cock. Sherlock kicks out of them and begins on John’s zip. 

John’s lets his own hand drop between his legs. His fingers stroke over the length of his cock through his trousers, then Sherlock’s long fingers join his. John pushes forward. Hands, mouth, body. On to the bed. Legs trapped in the jeans around his knees, John struggles free, then sends them to the corner of the room. 

Sherlock guides John’s hand to Sherlock’s cock. It’s thick, hard, and weeping. 

“This is happening,” John gasps. “This is really happening.”

“Yes, John, it is,” Sherlock says head tipped to watch John’s cock glide through joined fists. 

John can’t believe how gorgeous the man is beside him. As he rolls on his side, he murmurs his appreciation, and the heat of his words set Sherlock into a frenzy. John isn’t sure how far to go, slipping his fingertips along the crease where Sherlock’s thigh meets his groin. Sherlock moans approval, and John ventures further warming his bollocks and tracing down his arse hole. He grins to see Sherlock’s toes curl. 

“John. Please.”

“Open your legs,” John commands and Sherlock’s thighs fall apart. John holds his breath so tight it burns as he dips his finger into this crease and across his pucker and over his tailbone. “Again! Yes, John, again!” and Sherlock splays his thighs out farther. John wets his fingers and slides it across one more time to tease, then presses against his pucker and breaches him. A throaty roar comes from the pit of Sherlock. It’s low and loud and animal. John’s in to his first knuckle, exploring, taking time to let Sherlock relax. But it seems that’s not what Sherlock desires. He pushes against him and in an instant, his finger is all the way inside. He’s silky and warm and tight, but better, it’s how Sherlock writhes and whimpers and wriggles that tilts John’s heart and twists it. He’s felt this for so long and never said it. Never said it. Sherlock’s pale skin shimmers on the bed beneath him. John kisses and laps next to his finger as it works inside him.

“John ... John,” Sherlock murmurs as John finds that soft pebble inside him. “John!”

John slips in another finger and flicks his tongue near his hole. His other hand pets Sherlock’s tailbone down and around. He’s going to need some other lubrication if he’s going to go the rest of the way. That is, if it’s what Sherlock wants. 

“Sherlock?” Words he wants don’t come, but his fingers brush then hook against Sherlock’s sensitive prostate again and again. Sherlock back spasms off the bed. 

“Yes, John, yes!”

“Do you have any lotion or something to help ease the way? And a condom. In my wallet.”

“Yes. Dresser. Bottom left drawer. No condoms. You’re clean, I’m clean.” 

Of course Sherlock knows he’s clean. He doesn’t question, jumps out of bed like he’s on fire and rifles through the drawer until he has the bottle in hand. It’s actual lube, John smiles. The rascal. Sherlock watches with hooded eyes, lips curled in approval. 

“How do you want me?” Sherlock says, legs apart, trembling, hand fisting the sheet and his long toes curling.

“Just like that.” John crawls up the bed between his thighs and swings Sherlock’s leg over his good shoulder. He sits back on his heels and slathers the lube liberally on his cock, letting his fingers slide up and down his thickness. Sherlock hitches up on his elbow a bit to watch the spectacle. His mouth falls open, a deep moan escapes.  John quirks a grin, then leans forward. Two fingers inside and stretch him. 

“Fuck me. Now!”

John would love to and lines his cock up, then pushes carefully inside. Pulse to pulse. He enters. John’s breath punches out as he slips inside the soft, tight passage. He’s never felt the like, and it’s all he can do to not to cry, he’s wanted this for so long.

He’s half inside and it’s so obscene yet beautiful. A deep flush spreads over those sharp cheekbones and Sherlock begs beneath him for more. It’s all he can do to hold back and not give him what he wants. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes— John’s waited far too long to have this over in a few minutes. 

“John,” Sherlock rumbles. “This is better than kissing. I didn’t even know it could feel like this, so good. You are brilliant!”

He inches in and out. It’s agony, but it’s so, so hot. Sherlock hitches his arse forward just a little, enough to make the angle deeper and enough to make John lose control. He wants to swear at Sherlock and tell him to stop, and he wants to swear at Sherlock at tell him to do it again, but what he wants most is to have Sherlock come while he’s still hard inside him, still fucking him through the 800+ thread count sheets. John takes his slicked hand and takes Sherlock’s long, slender cock in hand. It’s a work of art in itself. Blue-veined and milk-white, uncircumcised head popping out red and firey. He rolls the pre come with his thumb. Sherlock yelps deep and stretches out his feet. Nerves twitch, hum, and tighten. Sherlock’s hips pump up. 

John thrusts in hard and with each stroke shoves Sherlock back against the headboard. When Sherlock gets the motion, he pushes back. It’s bliss. It’s paradise. It’s Shangri-la! They thrust and push and stutter and start again. John sees it coming, feels it coming. Sherlock gasps and pearly-white come splatters on John’s hand from Sherlock’s cock. His arse pulses and presses and John comes. John worries he might actually have a heart attack. 

It takes some moments before they move or speak or even breathe. “Holy fuck,” John manages finally. 

It’s a few moments before Sherlock responds. “Agreed. It _ was  _ a religious experience.” 

John chuckles and rolls them both over. They’re sticky and gloriously happy. John wonders if the smile on his face might stay plastered there for eternity. He knows Sherlock’s defenses are completely down when Sherlock farts. He’s only heard Sherlock do it a few times, and then Sherlock always blamed it on someone near him or his shoes. It must be love because he doesn’t bother with an excuse— just giggles. It’s sweet. He’d never thought of Sherlock Holmes as sweet before. 

They curl up together. Surprising how easily they drift asleep.

John wakes to full alert from raised voices in the next room, then realizes it’s Sherlock arguing with his brother. In person. John pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt and finds one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, then wanders cautiously into the fray.

“And I am not paying for your sex holiday!” Mycroft blurts out. John clears his throat and stifles a laugh. “Hello, John! So sorry to have disturbed you. I’m explaining to Sherlock his charges are excessive. He has taken advantage.”

“You gave him your credit card. What did you expect?”

“I did not ‘give’ him my card. He took it.”

“What? Did he drug you to get it? I didn’t think so. You should have kept it out of reach.”

“Blaming the victim, now are we, doctor?”

“You’re no victim. You leave victims behind,” Sherlock says. “Speaking of which, how’s Willem?”

“I’ve taken care of Willem. I acquired an important position where his talents will be admired and respected.”

“He’s a genius. You know exactly how brilliant the man is! He’s harnessed infinite ultra wideband transmission! It’s worth billions.”

“For which he shall be aptly compensated,” Mycroft states. “He and his family and future generations will want for nothing.”

John stops and stares at Sherlock. He hadn’t realized, but over the last days John had thought enough about Willem. Back to something more important. France. Winter. “I was promised a holiday,” John grumbles. 

“I don’t know what my dear brother promised, but despite what he may have said, this never was intended as a holiday.”

“Certainly it is now. We’ve earned it,” Sherlock returns.

“Sorry, but I’ve canceled the reservations on this suite. You need to pack up and be out by two o’clock.”

John frowns. He wants more time with Sherlock in France. He’s afraid to lose the magic of this place. “But we’d planned to go to the the Louvre. Do some shopping. Find some truffles.”

Mycroft laughs. “Mushrooms, doctor?! I had always thought of you as a bit of a hobbit!” Mycroft turns to Sherlock. “You may stay in Paris in the Shangri-La. For a week. But not this suite. Something a bit less painful on the pocket.”

“The sedan?” Sherlock asks.

“At your disposal.”

“That’s fair enough,” John says as Mycroft reaches out to shake John’s hand.

“Goodbye, John. Do keep him contained.”

“Always.”

“Now that you have the doctor to help scratch your itch,” Mycroft says to his brother and winks, “you shall be fine.” 

The door closes. They need to talk, and they’re terrible at talk, at least when it comes to matters of the heart.

“You can’t keep me safe on a shelf,” John says finally. The couch dips as he sits next to Sherlock. Sherlock’s so good at distraction, so John begins slow and methodically. He wants back into Sherlock’s life. Completely. “I expect to be partners again. More than partners, actually.”

Sherlock’s eyes lock with his. Chin up. Determined. He nods. “Agreed. Partners in every way.” He stares down as John takes his hand.

“We go on cases together. Even dangerous ones. But we’ll be careful.”

Sherlock hesitates. “I will no longer take unnecessary risks.”

“Sounds like a good compromise.”

“You will move back into Baker Street. Your old room can be refurbished for Rosie.”

John trembles. He knows all this implies. He’s ready. He thinks he’s been ready since the first day he met Sherlock, but until now, life and his own insecurities stood in the way. 

“We should stay here past check out time.” Sherlock leans in. “Your bed needs soiling and the Jacuzzi needs testing.” 

“One last fuck you to Mycroft?” John laughs. There’s more he needs to say. Heat rises from his chest to his face. “You said something to me in French when you were out of sorts. Do you remember?”

“I remember it well.” Sherlock bows his head and his hands rest on this thighs. His feet bounce and his eyes dart across the floor.

“Say it again.” John swallows, waiting. Sherlock’s chin lifts and his eyes warm as they meet John’s.

“J’aimerais être une goutte de sang pour mieux connaître ton cœur,” he purrs. 

John leans in and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s chin. “You don’t need a drop of my blood to know my heart,” John says. He closes his eyes and opens them to Sherlock’s unsteady fingers reaching out to touch John’s lips. “So I’ll tell you: I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“John... I...would you be upset if I told you that I do have a drop? More than a drop actually. That’s how I knew you were clean. Are you angry?”

“Surprisingly, no.” John kisses the corner of those lips, then sits up suddenly. “You planned this!”

“I admit. I’ve thought of this for some time,” Sherlock stands and begins pacing in from of John. “Getting your blood tested at Bart’s was simple. When Mycroft brought up this case, I thought that this was an opportunity to reach out. A safe case. France in winter. With you. Take a chance. I assure you that the rash was not planned although I used it to my advantage.”

“You really were drunk.”   


“That would be yes.” Sherlock turned pink with embarrassment. “I knew the caretaker in you couldn’t resist, so I intentionally overindulged. I almost lost my nerve more than once,” Sherlock admits. “I debated if I should text you. The defining moment came when I stood here in this spot and looked out at the beauty of Paris. Without you beside me, I wondered what the point of all this was. To see such beauty without the one you love to share it.”

His vision blurs with tears as John slowly stands and folds Sherlock into his arms. 

“Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi,” Sherlock blurts out.

“I can’t live without you either,” John whispers. “Never again.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments and kudos. I can’t say enough how important knowing you enjoy or liked my work. Please leave me a note or press the Kudos for this work and other works you read here on AO3. We love you for it!
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
